


here’s what happens when stars align

by blacksatinpointeshoes



Series: zolf smith v the concept of emotional openness [5]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, im very off brand guys, just. so much fluff guys, literally s o much, sleeby and gentle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 04:52:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19716586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacksatinpointeshoes/pseuds/blacksatinpointeshoes
Summary: But the way Hamid’slooking at him.The way Hamid’sstaring at him.There’s no judgement in his eyes as he watches Zolf, just too much adoration. Hamid’s sitting cross legged on the middle of Zolf’s bed and he’s staring like this halfway Ulysses hung the very stars in the sky.(or, I couldn’t stop myself from writing the established relationship bits of this au.)





	here’s what happens when stars align

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys. im. yeah. this is set in therapy au, because I love that au, but once again there is no therapy. only love :)

Knowing that  _ Hamid al-Tahan  _ is in his bed doesn’t do anything for Zolf’s nerves as he takes a shower, towels himself down, and gets ready to turn in. Knowing that he let Hamid into his tiny, shitty flat because Hamid’s place is infected with mould puts everything into context, but Zolf remains out of sync. They’ve been something like together for upwards of three months now but still playing at a regency-era romance, and it’s stressful.

Zolf isn’t ready for sex. They haven’t quite had the conversation yet but once, Hamid kissed him and his hand brushed Zolf’s thigh and Zolf went ashen, pale, swarmed by the memory of torture and methodic violence and hell. Zolf isn’t ready to be touched below the waist, below the knee - hell, he isn’t ready to be touched at all most days, a knock of shoulders activating his fight or flight response - and though he hasn’t said it aloud, Hamid knows. Hamid’s good at reading him.

Hamid is in his bed, though, and Zolf pulls on a pair of flannel pants before walking out of the bathroom. He doesn’t sleep in a shirt because it hurts, because when he wakes up screaming the tight collar of a tee will choke him, because it’s not worth throwing them in the laundry when they’re drenched in a cold sweat night after night. But Zolf’s body looks like it’s been torn apart, and Hamid is in his bed. 

But the way Hamid’s  _ looking at him.  _ The way Hamid’s  _ staring at him.  _ There’s no judgement in his eyes as he watches Zolf, just too much adoration. Hamid’s sitting cross legged on the middle of Zolf’s bed and he’s staring like this halfway Ulysses hung the very stars in the sky. 

Zolf sits down on the edge opposite Hamid and starts taking off the prosthetic, ignoring the way his heart revs up and jumps into his throat, because this is  _ fine.  _ Because it’s Hamid, and because Hamid isn’t going to hurt him.

“...Zolf?” Hamid whispers in a tone that shouldn’t hold his name, shouldn’t envelop his flat syllables with something fulsome and whole. The prosthetic clicks, and Zolf sets it beneath the nightstand.

“Hi, Hamid.” Zolf lies back heavily and shuts his eyes because every day is a Sisyphean task, and every morning starts the climb again. Hamid’s weight doesn’t settle into the pillows, though, and Zolf cracks open an eye. “Everything alright?”

Hamid reaches out a tentative finger towards the lighthouse on Zolf’s left bicep, then pauses. “Can I…?” 

Zolf pushes himself into a sitting position, stomach wrinkling around the remainder of a surgically precise incision, and takes Hamid’s hand, lacing their fingers together like he’s used to it. “Sure.” 

Hamid’s eyes don’t leave Zolf’s face as he traces the outline of the ink, don’t leave Zolf’s face as his fingers reach the bumpy scar above it, don’t leave Zolf’s body as he presses a single, delicate kiss to his shoulder, right where he is marred. Zolf can’t say what he thought Hamid would do or even what he  _ wanted  _ Hamid to do but it wasn’t to be treated like a holy man, a whole man, but Hamid touches him like reverence. Hamid kisses him like vitality. Hamid traces Zolf’s tattoos like they will answer prayers. 

“Is this okay?” Hamid asks, not quiet, just gentle, and Zolf nods. Hamid’s fingers wind down to the line of Morse code running in a circle beneath the lighthouse, then stop above the ridges of a burn. Zolf isn’t used to being touched but this is beyond featherlight, this is thought manifest, this is an eagle’s search over undiscovered mountains and Hamid is so fucking delicate, like Zolf could break.  _ “Gods.”  _

“Mm?” says Zolf, even though he’s not quite sure Hamid said anything in the first place. It sounded more like a sigh than words, but Hamid seems embarrassed to be caught in the act of admiration. Zolf doesn’t know why; there’s not much to admire. 

Zolf’s body looks like it’s been torn apart and stitched roughly back together again, mostly because it has, mostly because splinters and driftwood sliced into him when the ships broke, mostly because he shouldn’t have survived so long alone in the water, half dead from blood loss and mostly unconscious, mostly because the pirate crew that threw him in the brig weren’t concerned about Zolf’s good looks. Zolf’s body looks like it’s been torn apart and stitched roughly back together again because he took being mangled over being dead. 

Hamid’s hands are soft-soft, the ‘I’ve never done manual labour in my life’ soft, and those soft fingers are tracing the waves that surround the lighthouse tattoo like he is connecting constellations. Zolf’s body is not the heavens but Hamid doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Gods,” Hamid whispers again, like touching Zolf is a privilege he’s unsure of how to wield. “Gods, you’re pretty.” 

“... _ what?”  _

Zolf can’t say what he expected Hamid to say, or even what he  _ wanted  _ Hamid to say, but he’s pretty sure Hamid’s got the wrong man. Under no circumstance is Zolf Smith pretty, and certainly not this one, where there is no jacket to hide the fact that he is held together by scar tissue and ink. Under no circumstance does a man like  _ Hamid al-Tahan  _ sit in Zolf’s bed and call him pretty. That’s not how the world works. 

But the way Hamid’s  _ looking at him.  _ The way Hamid’s  _ staring at him.  _ Hamid wears his heart on his sleeve and Zolf isn’t stupid enough to misunderstand completely, but  _ him?  _ Of all people, him? 

“Sorry,” Hamid says quickly, scratching at the back of his neck and pulling away too fast. “I didn’t mean—”

“Hamid,” Zolf interrupts, and he shuts up, “it’s alright. You— you don’t have to pretend.” 

“Pretend?” Hamid’s voice jumps three octaves. “I’m not—”

“Look.” Zolf fights back every urge to cover himself with the blanket and turn away. “I know what I look like, alright? There’s no need for— for sugarcoating, or telling me things that aren’t true, because—”

“Zolf?” Hamid cuts in, a bit restrained. Zolf glances over. The pout of Hamid’s lips is screwed up a bit in frustration. 

“Mm?”

“Shut up,” Hamid says, ever so fond, and kisses him. 

It’s the gentlest kiss Zolf has ever received to date. Hamid leans over and presses his lips to Zolf’s, soft, slow, sweet, then pulls back a few inches and decides he’s not finished, lingering in the space where they breathe together, and he kisses Zolf like he’s used to it. And the truth is that Zolf  _ could  _ get used to it. The truth is that Zolf wants to. 

“I’m not pretending,” Hamid says, and Zolf believes him. 

**Author's Note:**

> y’all know where to find me (@thoughtsbubble on tumblr; @mostlyzoe on twitter; hanging out on the rqdbfc) - come say hi!! comments and kudos are greatly appreciated as always. thank you for reading :)


End file.
